


follow the blackbird home

by savage_starlight



Series: and you could have it all, my empire of dirt [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Friendships in the making, Gen, Give me another day or so and that'll probably change, Mentions of Violence, Miriam is group mom and Clayton is struggling, Relationships in the making, Strong Language, Supernatural Elements, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Very faintly implied pining but mostly gen this time, Western Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 05:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savage_starlight/pseuds/savage_starlight
Summary: A pit inside a pit inside a cave, a handful of skeletons, a little bit of hope, and a conversation.





	follow the blackbird home

**Author's Note:**

> WOW that was a bigger response than I anticipated! Thanks to everyone who commented on the last story. Hopefully, you find this one equally as enjoyable. There's much less pining, but I got to mess with the other characters a bit more. Don't worry, the pining will return. I have at least two more fics that are coming to mind but they're both super whumpy.
> 
> As with the last fic, this was supposed to be for inktober day 21: treasure. Unfortunately, I once again got sidetracked, just in case you couldn't tell by the distinctive lack of treasure in this story.
> 
> The title this time comes from "Caravan" by Passenger, because the phrase "there's heaven for the cruel but the devil waits for the kind" strikes me as the type of thing that would cross Clayton's mind. There was supposed to be a sense of resolution at the end of this fic to add significance to the "home" part of the title, but...well. Didn't get that far.
> 
> See you soon if inspiration holds! Thanks again for all the lovely comments - you're all amazing!

By the time they’re all done getting their asses summarily kicked by occult forces taking up residence inside a cave, Clayton’s got two bullets loaded in each gun, a matched set of bloody knuckles, and a scowl carved into his face so hard he thinks it might become permanent.

They’ve been on the trail of this last clue they’d found for three days now. Three days of wandering through the desert and plains, fighting off weird snakes and weirder spirits and though it has truly only been three days, it feels much longer than that. If Clayton never sees another fucking ghost in his entire fucking life, it’ll still be too soon. “Whatever happened to the dead finding rest in the Lord, Mason?” he grumbles, loading another round to replace the ones he’d just expended. “These fuckers don’t look to me like they’re resting.”

“What explanation there may be in heaven or earth, I’ve not yet found it,” Matthew replies from across the cave where he’s helping Bella stand. “Are you alright, Miss Whitlock? That was quite a blow you took a moment ago.”

“I’m rattled, but I’ll make it,” she says, steadying herself on a wall before brushing off his hands. “How are you faring, Reverend?”

“I’m rattled, but I’ll make it,” he echoes, a faint smile chasing across his face. There’s blood seeped across the shoulder of his duster, but he seems to be ignoring it for now. Clayton almost snorts. It’s a fair bit of progress, shrugging off a rock slash when not even a week ago he’d been limping all day from being bucked off a horse.

Almost like he can hear his thoughts, Matthew glances toward Clayton with a look that falls somewhere south of stern. Before he can say anything, Aly pipes up from where he’s been exploring further to the back of the cave they’re stuck in. “Hey, Reverend, Coffin, ladies! Got somethin’ back here!”

Thoroughly regretting the day he’d been delirious enough to admit to his moniker in front of Aloysius, Clayton follows the lantern light back to where the other man is standing by a hole in the ground and squinting at its contents. “This better not be any more of them snake creatures,” Clayton mutters.

Aloysius snorts. “Think I’d be standin’ this close if it was? I may be crazy, but it ain’t that kind of crazy. Look.” He holds the lantern higher and gestures.

Clayton moves beside him, peering down. It’s another pit full of corpses, because apparently nobody in this godforsaken desert believes in throwing dirt over a body to finish burying it. “They’re bones, Aly. Nothin’ new about that.”

“Oh really, it’s bones? You don’t say.” Aloysius elbows him hard in the ribs, pointing again. “Look again.”

Clayton scowls and squints. Tattered scraps of clothing cling to the bones in the pit – a woman’s fancy dress, a pinstriped vest, one single boot with rotting leather soles – but that’s not what catches his eye. The lighting shifts and glints off a rusted metal edge deep beneath the bodies, half covered in dirt. “Is that a box?”

“Looks like one to me. Maybe our dearly departed friends here were buryin’ something before they got buried themselves.”

The others approach from behind. Matthew stands behind Clayton and looks over his shoulder, then mutters a soft oath. “God rest their souls.”

“If God didn’t, I think we just might’ve,” Clayton says, glancing back at Matthew. “Four bodies. Four ghosts. I don’t reckon that’s a coincidence.”

“What powers would have possessed them to render such a return, though?” Arabella is leaning on Miriam, who has a hand around her waist. For being ladies of such fine standing, they’re both looking mighty tired. “Most of the dearly departed don’t come back to exact vengeance on those who visit their grave.”

“Not much of a grave, Miss Whitlock,” Clayton says. “More like a hole in the ground.” He turns around and finds himself face to face with Matthew, nearly bumping into his chest. He pulls the rope from the side of his pack and holds it out, instinctive. “Anchor me?”

“Always,” Matthew says, and grabs the rope with both hands.

Not five minutes later, Clayton’s feeling more than a slight sense of déjà vu as he swings himself down the fifteen foot drop into the pit, wondering all the way what the hell would prompt someone to dig a hole this deep and where the displaced dirt got off to. He’s careful dismounting at the bottom, mindful of the skulls and bodies beneath him. They’re probably past the point of caring, but the dead are due a little respect.

“You see anything down there, Mister Sharpe?” Miriam’s head pokes over the top of the pit, just barely.

“Nothing I didn’t see up there. Gimme a minute. Aly, hold that lantern a bit higher, I can’t see shit.” Breathing in the faint rot that surrounds the bodies, Clayton watches the light shift and makes his way toward the metal edge in the dirt when he sees it glint again. He moves aside the skeletal remains of the man laying inconveniently atop it, then frowns. “What the hell?”

“Clayton?” Matthew’s voice is laced just barely with a hint of concern. “Is everything alright down there?”

“Yeah,” he calls back. “Yeah, everything’s fine. But this ain’t a box, it’s a door of some kind.”

There’s a sudden burst of conversation from up top, everyone talking all at once. Clayton ignores them, kicking at the dirt around the metal slab in the floor until he reveals the full of it. It’s about three feet square and hinged on one side, a heavy and rusted padlock keeping it closed tight. Clayton contemplates it for a moment, looks at his gun, then looks up at the top of the pit. “Miriam, Matthew. One of you toss me your gun.”

“That doesn’t seem safe to me,” Matthew says nervously.

Fogg sighs. “Come on, gimme the rope. I got you.” He braces himself, and a moment later there’s a second person in the pit with Clayton, broad shoulders taking up a good amount of the narrow space.

Matthew hands over the shotgun, looking nervously between the padlock and the weapon now in Clayton’s hands. “You don’t mean to shoot that, do you? It’ll be rather loud in such a small space.”

“It’d also end up like as not with a bunch of holes in both our legs from the shrapnel,” Clayton remarks drily, then starts to slam the stock of the shotgun into the lock. After a few solid blows, the metal gives with a groan and the lock falls uselessly away. Clayton takes a step back and holds out an arm. “You want the honours, Father?”

“Not particularly,” Matthew admits, but opens the door anyway, slow and cautious as he can with the amount of rust collecting around the hinges. It looks like a heavy son of a bitch, but the preacher makes opening the door look easy, if not entirely effortless. Clayton looks inside, and all he sees is a rope ladder descending into more shadows. Matthew makes a face and sighs. “That’s not reassuring.”

Clayton scoffs. “That’s puttin’ it mildly.”

“What’s down there?” It’s Bella this time, sounding worried. “All we can see is a pit and then another pit.”

“That’s all we can see too,” Clayton says, biting back a sigh. “I’m going down. Keep an eye out up here. Best to be ready for anything.” He turns to Matthew. “Give me your lantern, would you?”

“That seems unnecessary, given that I’m joining you in this pit.” Clayton frowns, but he’s met with another cheerful if slightly worried smile. “You can hardly expect me to let you go alone. There’s no telling what manner of foul creature might be down there.”

_Probably nothing fouler than I can outrun, _Clayton thinks, but keeps it to himself. He doesn’t fancy being joined in another ominous pit of doom by someone with the Reverend’s reputation for kindness, but he fancies going into it alone even less. Two sets of eyes are better than one, and if there’s anything he’s learned this past week of working with the other man, it’s that he’s known mules that are less stubborn. He holds out his hand anyway. “Fine, but give me the lantern anyway. I’m goin’ first.”

With a few more slightly panicked well-wishes from the top of the pit, they descend. For how old and rickety the ladder feels, it holds Clayton’s weight surprisingly well through the twenty or so feet he spends climbing down it. He reaches the bottom and Matthew starts down from the top as Clayton turns around, the lantern held high to illuminate just what they’ve gotten themselves into now.

The first thing he sees is a body, or what’s left of one. It’s been rotting a while by the smell of it, and its guts are splattered half across the floor like shriveled, gory worms, its head twisted around so far the neck is tearing. Whatever did the body in, it did the job thoroughly. Behind him, Matthew gags and makes the sign of the cross in the air.

For as little thought as he gives to religion, Clayton can’t help but feel the same instinct rise up in his guts. Whatever did this, it’s a hell of a way to die. “Let’s hope we’re not about to go out in the same way,” he says, “or the others might get it in their heads to come down and check.”

“I certainly hope they’d have more sense,” Matthew murmurs, and Clayton pretends he doesn’t hear the note of uncertainty in his voice. It’s a strange arrangement that they’ve come to, the people at the top of the pit and the pair of them in the depths of it. They look out for each other, all of them. It makes things complicated, when so many of the situations they keep finding themselves in end with them feeling torn between saving their own skin and saving each other.

They explore in silence for a time, periodically reporting their progress to the three upstairs as they pick their way through the chamber. It’s almost entirely empty, with the obvious exception of the body in the middle of the floor. The only thing they find other than empty bottles and rats is a single book, thick and covered with dust and written entirely in some foreign tongue or another.

When he shows it to Matthew, the Reverend’s brow creases for a moment before he brightens. “It’s Latin,” he says. “I can translate this. It will take a minute, of course, but I can do it.” He flips the book over in his hands a few times, frowning. “It’s strange that it shouldn’t have a title.”

“It’s strange that it’s written in _Latin_. Think it might be this dead gentleman’s journal.”

“Or his last will,” Matthew suggests.

“That’d certainly be convenient, given the circumstances.” Clayton shrugs off the admonishing look Matthew gives him and, leaving the light with him, walks back over to the ladder, looking up through the gloom to where he can still just make out the others up top.

Aly’s taken to sitting at the edge of the pit, his legs dangling over the side. “Found anythin’ interesting yet down there?”

“Not since you asked two minutes ago, no.”

“Goddamn,” Aloysius swears, scratching the back of his head. “That place completely empty or are you just hard to impress? Maybe I oughta ask the Reverend instead. He finds good shit everywhere. Hey, Reverend!” He cups his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound, and the result is an entire cave ringing with the echo.

When he’s done plugging his ears, Clayton fixes Aloysius with a stern glare that has absolutely no effect on the other man’s grin. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Do you?”

“Gentlemen, would you please stop pretending you hate each other for five minutes?” Bella interrupts, loud enough for Clayton to hear even far below. “This presentation is giving me a headache.”

“It’s probably not the only thing makin’ your head hurt, Miss Whitlock,” Aloysius points out, not unkindly. “That was a mighty hit you took not too long ago.”

Whatever response Arabella gives, Clayton doesn’t hear it. At that moment, a hand falls on his shoulder, and he spins around ready to deck someone before he realises it’s just the Reverend come up behind him, and not the reanimated corpse of whoever came down here last. Matthew puts up both hands in a show of innocence, briefly terrified. “Hold your fire, it’s only me.”

“I can see that now,” Clayton mutters, relaxing. “What is it?”

“Good news,” Matthew replies. “We were right.”

“Well, that’s a shocker if I’ve ever heard one. Right about what?”

“This is the dead person’s journal, and I believe it is the key to understanding what’s going on in this town beyond our current, ah- primitive understanding of it.” It’s a mighty polite way of saying that they know fuck-all about any of this weird shit, but Clayton waits for Matthew to continue instead of commenting. “Look at this.”

Clayton blinks at the journal, the line he’s being shown in it. “Matthew, it’s still in Latin.”

“Yes, of course. Foolish of me. What I meant to say is, this line is referencing gold, a great wealth of it. And this here, it speaks of riches and the protection of them through means not of this earth. There’s symbols too, though that’s more Miss Whitlock’s area of expertise than mine, but the important part is-“

“All this weird shit’s been happening because somebody was protectin’ their gold stash,” Clayton finishes. He blinks and shakes his head, the Dealer’s words echoing in his head. _This land is poisoned by greed._ “I’ll be damned.”

“I doubt that greatly,” Matthew retorts almost offhandedly, snapping the book closed. He grabs Clayton’s elbow with a feverish excitement that doesn’t belong in a dark pit like this. “Don’t you see? These are the answers we’ve been looking for. If Miss Whitlock can decode the meaning of those symbols, we can stop this madness, bring peace back to this place once and for all.”

There is a hopeful light in the Reverend’s eyes, and it’s only now that Clayton realises this is the first time he’s seen it. All those times before, when he’s been preaching and begging for help to rebuild the church, that’s been well-meant speeches. Here, now, he isn’t just crossing his fingers and asking for salvation. He’s looking like he intends to bring it whether the Lord grants it or not.

Hope doesn’t serve anyone too well in these parts. But Clayton’s in too deep to back out now. He clasps the Reverend’s shoulder and squeezes. “ Then it seems we oughta get upstairs to see if she can make sense of those symbols.”

“Right. Of course. After you, then.”

Clayton nods and ascends the ladder, then starts on the rope once he sees Matthew start to climb below him. Aloysius holds the rope steady, but as soon as Clayton gets to the top he takes over anyway as he hears the heavy metal door close once more. “You sure ‘bout this, Mister Coffin?” Aloysius asks. “Reverend’s a big man. I might do better lifting him, or the both of us.”

“I got him,” Clayton says, maybe a bit sharply, and braces himself for the weight. Two minutes later, Matthew’s over the top of the pit and brushing himself off as Aloysius helps him to stand. He shows the book to Arabella, and the two of them are off, discussing translations and the possible meanings of the book.

Clayton watches them for a long moment as he recoils the rope around his forearm, and doesn’t notice he’s frowning until Miriam sidles up beside him. “Why don’t you and me take a walk, Mister Sharpe? This cave is stifling me something dreadful. I could do with some air.”

“Don’t reckon you need my assistance to breathe, Miss Miriam, but I’ll accompany you nonetheless if you want me to.” There doesn’t seem to be any further threat in this area, and with Aloysius enraptured by the conversation between Matthew and Bella, it could be a while before anything else of interest presents itself. All the same, he checks his guns and gives the area one more keen scan before starting off toward the distant mouth of the cave at Miriam’s side.

They keep a leisurely pace, making their way along without much small talk. It’s a few minutes’ walk, but the path is simple, no branches or side tunnels to confuse them. When they step outside, it becomes obvious that they’ve been in there a good while. The sun that had been hanging high overhead when they entered is now dipping low toward the horizon, dyeing the sky a dark, bloody red.

“That’s more like it,” Miriam says, breathing deep. Clayton gives a noncommittal hum and tilts his head back to look at the sky. It’ll be a clear night, if they fancy sleeping outside instead of nestling up in the corpse cave, a notion he certainly favours. He’ll take his chances with the elements over the undead any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Then again, nobody’s asked him.

A minute passes. Two. Clayton says nothing. Miriam brought him out here with a purpose. Now it’s just a matter of waiting until she decides to bring it up.

Just as he’d expected, she starts talking before too much longer. “What do you expect they might find in that journal, Mister Sharpe? Occult symbols and Latin diaries mix uncomfortably with the phenomena we’ve been experiencing.”

_There ain’t much that mixes comfortably with what we’ve been experiencing, _Clayton doesn’t say. His shoulder twitches in a brief shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. Reverend said something about gold, protectin’ it with ‘means not of this earth’.” A week ago, the phrase would have dripped with sarcastic venom, but now it's too real a possibility for him to mock. “I expect we’ll either find ourselves toe to toe with a demon of the abyss, or we’ll find the gold the poor bastard downstairs was tryin’ so hard to protect.”

“Perhaps you men folk should place bets on which is more likely to happen.”

_You couldn’t pay me to make a bet like that these days, _Clayton thinks, raising an eyebrow. “Us men folk? Am I to assume you and Miss Whitlock wouldn’t have an interest in participating, then?”

Miriam flashes him a smile, quick and sharp and without any teeth. “Of course not. It’s below our delicate sensibilities.”

Clayton snorts. “All due respect, ma’am, but that delicate sensibilities line would work a far sight better on someone who hadn’t seen you shoot.”

“Maybe so. All the same, never hurts to put on a bit of a show, now does it?”

“I suppose not.”

“I thought so,” Miriam says with a smile, a real one this time. She leans in close and drops her voice low. “Seems to me that you’re familiar with a bit of showmanship yourself, Mister Sharpe.”

There it is, the real reason they’re out there. She wants to know more about him, about the man who’d called him The Coffin. The reveal doesn’t surprise him, but the sudden way it drops into the conversation reminds him of a rattler, coiled up on the sand and ready to strike. “Knew you didn’t ask me out here to talk about the weather,” he says, keeping his face clean of emotion. “Something you’d like to say, Miss Miriam?

“I’d like you to relax yourself, for one thing,” Miriam huffs, sounding slightly offended. “I’m not about to interrogate you. That was an observation, not an accusation.”

“Where I’m from, those two things are mighty similar more often than not.”

“If I wanted to accuse you of something, I’d come out and say it more bluntly. I do have a question, however, one I’d assumed you’d rather not answer in front of the others.”

“And that is?”

“How are you handling all this?” It’s not the question he’s expecting. Clayton jolts and looks over at Miriam, only to find her looking back. There’s a sternness tugging at the corners of her mouth, her typical ferocity carved in her brow, but there’s no hint of unkindness to be found.

He blinks, stunned. “Beg your pardon?”

“How are you holding up?” Miriam repeats. “Arabella’s all over the idea of the occult, and Aloysius doesn’t seem inclined to letting any situation dampen his mood. The Reverend has his faith. What are you holding onto in all this mess, Mister Sharpe? What’s stopping you from walking away?”

“Five hundred gold and keeping myself on the green side of the grass seems a solid incentive from where I’m standing,” Clayton says drily. “Mister Swearingen isn’t the type I like to make an enemy of.”

“I expect if you wanted to badly enough, you could get away without that being a concern,” Miriam says, her voice all too knowing. A shiver runs down Clayton’s spine like someone walking over his grave, and not for the first time he finds himself wondering just what the hell kind of tricks it is that Miriam has up her deceptively short sleeves.

“I like havin’ powerful friends,” he says.

“I thought you preferred a life in the shadows,” Miriam counters, and he understands very suddenly that his earlier thought of conversations like snakes was not so wrong after all. In a fight, Miriam shoots to kill. When she talks, she does the same.

He looks away and crosses his arms, feeling entirely too exposed. “What difference does it make? I’m not walkin’ away. What does the rest of it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t. You do.” Clayton stiffens, and Miriam continues. “We’re partners in this enterprise, you and me and all the others. Even if you don’t want to consider us friends, for the time being we’re responsible for each other. You spend a lot of time looking after the others, Mister Sharpe. I think it only fitting that someone be looking out for you.”

“I appreciate the concern, Missus Landisman, but I look out for myself just fine.” He can’t help the slight chill that slips into his tone, the way it flattens out. He’s spent his whole life looking out for himself, doesn’t turn his back on anything if he can help it. He doesn’t mind people saving his neck when they’re in the vicinity and he can return the favour, but the last thing he needs is anyone watching him or his back.

“I know you do. I’ve also seen how you look out for the Reverend.”

“That’s because he’s a fuckin’ idiot.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Same thing,” Clayton snaps, suddenly angry. “He seems to think by solvin’ this mystery he can bring peace on us or something. You believe that? Peace don’t belong in Deadwood or anywhere near it. All he’s gonna do is get himself run out of town with the church on fire behind him, _again._”

Miriam watches him with a steady expression. “That was a lot of passion just now out of a man who purports not to care,” she says without any malice, and just like that the fight slides back out of Clayton like it was never there at all.

He leans his head back against the wall of the cave entrance and closes his eyes. Counts backward from ten, slowly, then does it again. He thinks that if this place goes under, it'll take him with it. If this thing they've got going falls through, if they fail, or if they succeed and walk off to different corners of the horizon, he's not sure what he'll do. He’s got his guard up for a reason and somehow these people and their foolish ways have already slipped past it, wormed their way into his brain like parasites. If this fails, if _they _fail, everything will go down with them, and he never has much liked waiting for the world to fall. He’d rather be the one to make it kneel.

After a long, heavy silence, he tries again. “Caring’s just a word, Miss Miriam,” he says and opens his eyes again to the horizon, the crimson sky. “It won’t save anyone from bad luck. Nothin’ will.”

To his surprise, Miriam steps closer, lays a hand on his shoulder, slow and tentative. “I don’t think you give that heart of yours enough credit, Clayton,” she says, her voice soft. “Caring about someone can do more than you think.”

The moment stretches out for a long while before her hand falls away. The moment it does, Aloysius appears from the tunnel behind them like he’s been waiting for a cue. “Sharpe, Ma’am, you best get back here. The other two made themselves at home with that journal and I think they’re getting somewhere with all this supernatural mumbo jumbo.”

“Is that right?” Miriam turns, smiling like they’ve only been discussing the weather all this time, and loops her arm through Aly’s. “In that case, I think you should lead the way, Mister Fogg. Mister Sharpe, will you be joining us?”

“In a minute,” he says in what he hopes is a normal tone. The pair wander off back into the cave and leave him alone at the mouth of it, frowning out into the horizon like it’s personally done him wrong.

_What are you holding onto in all this mess? What’s stopping you from walking away? _The questions scrape at the inside of his skull, harsh and grating. Ahead of him, the flat expanse of desert and plains asks no questions, tells no lies. A man could build a life out here, if he tried hard enough. There's supposed to be gold, plenty of it, and hope to spare. To his eyes, the sunset still looks like blood.

Clayton turns around, faces the cave entrance, and walks.


End file.
